


...And She Will Lead You Home.

by trix_lyesmith



Category: Loki - Fandom, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Loss of Powers, Magic, Mother-Son Relationship, Prelude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trix_lyesmith/pseuds/trix_lyesmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angst fic focusing on Loki and Frigga.</p><p>Loki is locked away in an Asgardian prison cell, with only his own thoughts and nightmares for company. But despite the 'no visitor' rule placed upon him, he anticipates the arrival of one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...And She Will Lead You Home.

Odin had told him this was it.  
These four bare walls, these meagre possessions, a life of little privacy - considering two of those walls were clear as crystal - a life of near-solitude. Of staring out despairingly at a grim array of ugly criminals as they paraded past him every day – and many of them traitor to the crown at that, who would tear him limb from limb should they happen to get hold of him.  
 _Though that,_ he thought with amusement, _would be highly ambitious of them._

The other prisoners found it all rather amusing of course. When he had first arrived, the guards had dragged him in, paraded him in front of them all and announced his name yet, oddly, not his crimes. At that point, the whispers had begun. His fellow inmates had stared at him, glimmers of greed shining in their eyes as they most likely thought about how much his body parts would be worth on the black market, and intrigue and suspicion struck their black little hearts.

He had been brusquely stripped of his armour, whipped and beaten as all new prisoners are, to show they are under control of the Justice, and then finally he’d been left chained and gagged in the centre of his glass prison like a feral animal for all to see. It was a way of ‘humbling’ a new inmate, so that they had no thoughts of grandeur or demands for respect in their new environment. 

Not long after that, the laughter had started.

“Foolish old Odin Allfather!” One ugly looking Aesir had bellowed. “Locked away his own son! And a prince of the realm at that!” He’d shook with laughter. The others guffawed about it whenever they got the opportunity, peering in with dirty faces as they were marched past his cell for rations.

For they did not know what had led Loki Odinson to his crimes. They were not aware of his ‘treasons’, or in fact, the secret of his true heritage, which he had so far managed to keep hidden - buried away in his chest like a broken shard of glass, that stung and scraped and scratched away at him every day, but which had not yet filtered down to the ears of Asgard’s underbelly. No, they could not imagine why he was there.

They all saw it as a sure sign of madness on the part of their ruler, and often made jokes that perhaps Odin should consider throwing all the other citizens of Asgard down there with them whilst he was at it. They would regularly ask Loki how long he supposed it would be before they should expect the God of Thunder to join them for supper, and then erupt with raucous laughter.

Loki would have found it amusing himself, had the jokes not been at his expense.

After it had become apparent to him, by the second day no less, that he would not be able to tolerate the inane babbling, gawping and gossiping of the other inmates over his arrival - and after he had put a bowl of cold and stubborn looking porridge over Endrik’s head for making some lewd joke about hoping the Lady Sif would be imprisoned next - he had returned to his cell swiftly and refused to ever leave it again.

After a few days of starvation his meals were delivered to him, which he had found a rather humorous outcome, yet he continued to refuse to eat upon principle. He wasn’t sure if the deliveries were down to preferential treatment, or simply because the guards were fearful of him and afraid of trying to drag him from his bed – as was the usual rigmarole when other prisoners tried the trick.

The fact that they’d not allowed him to starve to death proved to him that someone, at least, was keeping an eye on his well-being.

Eventually the hunger had become akin to having a vicious serpent gnawing on his guts every time he smelt the fresh food that dropped into his enclosure, and it had worn him down until, reluctantly, he’d been drawn out to the edge of his cell to retrieve the gluey looking breakfast that awaited him.

Yes, this was it; the Allfather had spoken with a cold detachment.  
“You are alive only because Frigga requested it so. But do not doubt - you will never see her again.”

And yet… he knew.

 _Well…_  
Deep down perhaps, there was still a modicum of doubt in his mind. He couldn’t imagine what would bring her here, to risk her life for him, to forgive him for what he had done. But truly, there was no denying it. His skin was already tingling – not with anticipation, but with magicks. That... and the knowledge that he would not remain alone for much longer. Try as she might, she could not abandon him. He did not know when, but he knew she would come.

Days drifted seamlessly into night, and then back into day – time was not monitored here in this sleeping lion’s den. There were simply days, days without end, days that blurred from one to the next as the sands of time slowly departed. He would drift in and out of consciousness, and even when he tried to fight the idle slumber, it was almost impossible to resist.

_Whenever he slept, Loki would find himself standing on the edge of the Bifrost, looking down at the rushing waters below; before he’d learned his secret, before he’d fallen, before he’d destroyed himself. Before he’d been rebuilt by a bigger monster than he was. And try as he might he could not look back up. He would be transfixed by the gaping void below. It was as though he stood on the very precipice of time and the yawning maw that waited below was his only destiny. The nightmare always played out the same way. A pair of powerful hands would grip his shoulders, shoving him heavily off the edge into nothingness, into eternity. Forever outside of time. Then, he would look up, and Thor would be clinging on to him desperately. He would mouth Loki’s name, but Loki could never hear him. He seemed so far away. With one final look at his brother’s face, he would let go, and fall endlessly, endlessly into nothingness. After what seemed like a terrifying age of falling, falling, he would finally hit something solid. A strange, soft, purple landscape which writhed and shifted. It would slowly dawn on him what it was he stood upon, but it was always too late. He would turn and look up into Thanos’ enormous face, as the oversized hand he had landed in closed around him. His throat would restrict in panic, he could no longer breathe, or shout. Or scream. The other hand of the mad Titan would slowly come toward him, with a flickering match burning brightly between the fingertips, coming toward him faster, faster..._

_And then he would wake, drenched in cold sweat, throat hoarse from screaming. He would never see whom it was that continuously pushed him from that ledge into eternity...but he could take a wild guess..._

Nightmares always brought a panic to his waking hours. He would sit in silence, and fear infinity. Eons of loneliness had begun to stretch out before him. He could see eternity within those four walls, and the thought of that eternity stretching out into nothingness... the meaninglessness of it all. He hated to admit... it terrified him.

Eventually he lost track of how many days had passed him by, and so he tried to make it easier on himself by breaking up his time. As Loki did not leave his cell to fraternise with the other inmates, he had to find other ways to flex his intellectual muscles. So he would sit, sometimes hunched and silent on the window ledge, or sometimes sprawled deep in thought upon the bed, drifting in and out of drowsy dozing sleep. It seemed like one endless day of waiting. 

And still no one came.

In his mind little voices had begun to whisper to him that he was punishing himself – that the solitude had already sent him mad. Perhaps it was easy for her to forget about him after all? Maybe she didn’t want him, and could he blame her? He had come up with his own perfect torture, and he was driving himself slowly mad.

 _Ridiculous_ he muttered, _Not I. My mind is sound. She will be here. She **will**_ _be here. I will return to glory. I will not crack. I am the cunning magpie, watching with patient glee as all below scurry with fear. I am not trapped here. This is exactly where I wanted to be. Do not pity me yet Asgard – show your king for a fool. I will lie in wait. My freedom is at hand._

This became a mantra. A maddening mantra, where the words all sounded distinctly bitter the longer he repeated them. He drummed them into his head day after day after day.

Until finally, the day dawned.

****

He had fallen asleep on the bed and had ended up twisted up in the sheets, plagued by the fitful nightmares to which he had grown accustomed.

He would usually lie abed awhile, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead and languishing in the heat of his cell. The humidity made it difficult to sleep, and then once asleep made it impossible to wake - made all the worse by having to sleep fully dressed. He glared over at the clear viewing panels that made up half his cell. Quite whom was supposed to ‘view’ him when he was denied visitors, he could not be sure.  
He often would lie there struggling for breath, flopping about like a beached whale until he could muster enough strength to rise, but today he had woken early and suddenly, and had felt the distinct and familiar tang of an electric current in the air, like static. 

He ran his fingers through his hair, and grimaced at how matted it felt, rubbed his face with a careless palm and blinked. He felt restless within. His heart thumped in his chest, his stomach felt yawningly empty. His muscles cried out with disuse at every movement. He withdrew himself from the sheets, and perched upon the window ledge, attentive, head tilted, _like a Magpie_ he thought satisfyingly, eyeing its prize in the distance. 

He sat and watched his fellow inmates awaken. This was something he invariably did every day, mainly because he did not sleep on the same sleep cycles as they did, and so he always unintentionally saw them rise from their slumber before resigning himself to his own bed. Yet today he watched them with a keen eye. He noted that they too were unusually restless.

He peered out from the bright, glaring light of his own cell, which was never dimmed no matter the time of day, and looked out into the darkness beyond. The corridors were lit with a dimmer light than the cells, which made adjusting his eyes difficult. But he could see the occupants of the other chambers clear as day. Loki watched on, silently, thoughtfully. 

The other inmates often slept in disordered heaps, curled up in corners, or sprawled about upon the floor or even upright and leaning against the glass.  
Today they had awoken agitated; they paced their cells, they sat and then rose again. They tapped the glass. The atmosphere was tense.  
 _They feel it too.  
The magicks._

The majority of them had cellmates, others were solitary as he was, yet he was the only prisoner with the luxury of furniture. He’d been provided with a double bed and a couple of small tables. He, at least, appeared civilised, and never slept anywhere except the comfortable bed.

All the furniture had been unceremoniously torn from his regal chambers in the palace. Each piece bore his regal initials; an italic ‘L’ encircled with a bold ‘O’, his sigil resting on the top like a crown. He tried hard not to look at them. Or stare at them until they burned into his retinas, forcing him to blink back...tears. Or trace over them with his fingers.  
He tried very hard to only trace the ‘L’.

Each cell was specifically designed to sufficiently contain its inhabitant. Those, for example, with unprecedented strength, would find themselves encased in unbreakable, impenetrable glass, ten times more enforced than the ones nearby. Those with the cunning to crack their locks would find the mechanisms baffling.

Loki himself was a curious thing. He had power and prowess above any other occupant, and not only had he been confined to solidarity but his cell had also been reinforced in several extra ways - and by the Allfather himself no less. His supposed father had ensured him the perfect prison. His cell was as strong and impenetrable as the others but had two, extra and rather vital security measures.

The first was the aforementioned temperature control of the cell, which was kept at a particular humidity; a supposed deterrent for any temptation to shift into ‘Frost-Giant’ form. _As if I would debase myself,_ he inwardly scoffed.  
The second and most imperative security measure was to suppress and eliminate the use of his magicks entirely.

He had rapidly found this out as he’d sat there that first day. He’d been unchained and allowed the freedom of his cell, but he’d been bound by something else. He’d felt all his power slowly draining away from him until finally he had felt so weak he could not stand. 

Cut off from the source of his magicks; unable to phase, astral-project or hide himself away, he had at first felt helpless. And then a sudden loneliness and detachment had followed. The idea of being trapped on one physical plane for all eternity made him feverish. He had quite literally been severed from everyone and everything – he was a prize bird in a pretty glass cell, unable to fly away, unable even to stretch his wings. He hadn’t just been locked in a prison. He felt as though locked in his own body.

This had not upset him _per se;_ it was incredibly frustrating, but he was learning to cope with it. He was intrigued, however, by the sense of loss he felt, and, dare he say it, the powerlessness that accompanied it. It had taken many years of practice and excess skill to study and develop those powers he had acquired, and now all he could think about was how long it would be before he forgot how to perform them entirely. He’d felt hollow and without purpose.

Until today.  
Something about the cell had changed; he felt as though a pressure had been lifted, just as you know when your ears have cleared after coming down from a high altitude. 

His skin was coursing with energy now, prickling and tingling and the sensation grew stronger and stronger by the hour.  
His powers were returning.

It began as a thoroughly unpleasant sensation; the feeling slowly coming back to him, first in his finger tips and toes, then up through his arms and legs, spider-webbing across his body, making his head buzz excitedly. It was rather like losing a limb and then having it re-attached - something he had rather unfortunately once experienced when a troll had caused a couple of his fingers to go awry with a longsword in battle. He grimaced at the reminder and flexed his fingers, once again thankful for the magicks the healers had worked upon him all that time ago.

It was a strange and terrible thing that gripped him feverishly. He broke out in a cold sweat, and he felt a sudden dizziness as he lurched up off the windowsill. He wanted to writhe and scream and cry out, but instead he resigned to crouching upon the cool stone floor in the centre of his prison, and there he stayed in silence, close to the ground, finger tips pressed to the cool tiles, feeling himself tuning back in, connecting back with the world tree, feeling his magicks returning to him, and then slowly, swiftly, as it settled back into place like a second skin, attaching itself to every fibre of his being, aligning itself with his body, fitting him perfectly, he stood. Empowered.  
It was euphoric.

 _Yet temporary._ He thought sullenly.  
He hoped it would not be the only occasion to experience the exhilaration of growing stronger and more powerful by the second. But he knew the reasons for the occurrence. Someone was taking down the enchantments on his cell. He was able to reach out to the world again. Someone needed to break the barriers _to be able to get in._  
A sudden temptation crept into his brain.  
 _Run._ It whispered.  
 _Open a portal, phase through the walls, summon a distraction. Do something – do anything. Use your powers and **run.**_

A grin curled his lips, stretching across his face, the first facial expression he had used in days.

 _No.  
Play the game, Loki. _ He told himself. _Run now and be nothing but a coward. Where is the cunning in that?_

So, resolutely, he reconciled with waiting.  
For tonight, she would come.

***

He was sitting upon the bed facing the blank white wall of the back of his cell, making little figures of light dance upon the bedspread to amuse himself, when he was suddenly acutely aware of a presence in the room, the same awareness you feel when you know somebody has stood in a doorway behind you, or crossed your path in the darkness ahead. A frisson ran down the nerves in his spine, the hairs on his arms stood on end.

It was at this point Loki realised he had not spoken a word since he had arrived in this hellhole, ince he did not associate with the other inmates, and hadn’t even spoken to them when he had left his cell before his hunger strike.  
He cleared his throat and, upon speaking, found his voice to be hoarse and gravelly with disuse.  
“I thought I had been denied the privilege of visitors?”

He did not turn in her direction - he daren’t. Yet there was no denying who had arrived.  
He wasn’t certain, now that it was happening whether, firstly, she would be real and secondly, if he was strong enough to look her in the eye. _I am stronger than ever before,_ he thought with a little exhilaration. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, and gritted his teeth in determination, but once she spoke, his resolve faltered.

“And yet...you knew I would come.”

He shut his eyes, allowing himself to savour the satisfaction that he had been right.  
She was here. He was _right._

Her voice felt so close, as though she were sitting right beside him. And yet, when he finally turned and looked for her, his eyes shining and face marred with a wounded expression, his mother was standing within the confines of his cell, at least eight feet away from him. Dressed in a fine silk gown of bronze, she had foregone her armour for plain, simple jewellery that accentuated her look. Her hair was scrolled up on the top of her head, her face drawn and pale, yet relaxed. Strong. Her expression unreadable.  
“I had to see you.”

“If I’d known your… _concern,_ ” he said, pointedly, “I would have written.”  
His voice hinted at amusement, but not a flicker of a smile graced his face.  
She stared at him then, and slowly folded her arms together.  
“But, then of course, I _am_ missing my writing desk so…”  
“Be grateful for what you _have_ kept, Loki.” Her voice was even and tempered, but there was an underlying thread of authority woven into it that he dare not cut through.  
He clamped his mouth shut and pinched his lips in defeat.

“We need to speak.”

He was tempted to reply sarcastically once more, but daren’t.  
Instead he rose from the bed and took a few tentative steps towards her. He could almost feel the barrier between them – one that did not exist physically, but which separated them nonetheless, and of which he had been the cause.

They stood opposite one another like strangers on a battlefield, with nothing but carnage lying between them.

“What have you come to say?” He forced himself to choke out. He picked agitatedly and absent-mindedly at his hands.  
Frigga heaved a great sigh.  
“Despite all. After everything. I am grateful to have you returned to us.”  
Her voice was thin and weak, and not nearly as authoritative as she most likely had intended it to be.  
He forced himself to shrug and then smirk, “I am sure everyone would rather I’d stayed dead.”  
“Never!”  
To his utmost surprise she stepped forward boldly, grabbed his forearm, and pulled him toward her in an embrace. Loki remained rigid and did not reciprocate, yet he could not hide the surprise that she was corporeal, actually physically here with him, when he had assumed that she would merely be a projection.  
“I knew you would return. I always believed in you,” she whispered against his ear, and then pulled him back to look at him, as one might survey a treasured possession they had dropped for damage, one hand supporting the back of his head, “I still do. Nothing will change that...” her hand re-positioned to cup one side of his face, her thumb brushed along his cheekbone. There was such sincere affection in her expression that he had to swallow hard to try and keep up his cold and distant façade.

It would be easier for her if he remained detached.

After a few moments, she pieced herself back together and stepped away.  
“I need you to promise me you will remain here. You will live by the rules of the Asgardian Justice. You will obey and be courteous.”  
A disgusted grunt escaped Loki’s lips, “What - say _please,_ and _thank you,_ and wander around the hallways as though I’ve had some sort of lobotomy, like those... those _cretins_ out there?” He jabbed a finger toward the other inmates. “Keep my mouth shut? Like a good little jailbird...”  
“I am _serious._ ” She almost stamped a foot.  
“....just as Odin always _planned_ it to be, eh, mother? ‘Be a good little boy, Loki. Stand idly by; watch your brother take every glory, every triumph. Sit still and be quiet. Be seen and not heard. Be around when I need you, but disappear when I do not. Take heed _boy,_ you. Will. Not. Be. King.’”

The rage and anger that he had buried ever since he’d left Midgard in tatters, ever since he’d battled Thor’s friends, ever since he’d returned home and hidden it away deep within his soul, suddenly re-surfaced, quicker and more aggressive than he could ever imagine. He turned away from her, furious at himself. His voice was filled with contempt, his eyes swelling with unshed tears. And his mother was going to bear the brunt of all his rage, when someone else, someone with far more responsibility for his suffering should have been standing in her place.

Her voice caught in her throat, “y-you...you can’t really _believe_ all that...” she murmured, more to herself than to him.  
“Oh, face it mother, all I ever was was an _experiment._ All I ever symbolised was a failed conquest. I was nothing more than a machination for amity between our worlds. But instead of peace I brought only war. And destruction.” He turned to her with a cold, drawn sneer. He was ranting now, but still he continued, “I must be _such_ a disappointment to old _‘one eye.’_ Then again... I’m sure much wasn’t expected of me in the first place...”  
“That’s not true,” she exclaimed in hushed tones with a quick look thrown over her shoulder at the other cells, even though he was certain they could not be heard.  
“Your father wanted you for the Einhejar, _long_ before he spotted anything promising in Thor.”  
Loki scoffed, looked away and glowered at the ground. “Yes. It always was a competition between the two of us, wasn’t it? Who could impress the mighty Allfather the most…?”  
“ _And,_ ” she raised her voice authoritatively, “he is your _father_ Loki, like that or not. He trusted you.”

He gave her a long blank stare that grew cold and callous as he balked on her words.  
“And what use would I be to the Einhejar? As some feral pet, I suppose.” He sneered, “to wield at the front of the battle like some rabid beast, scaring the adversary off with my frost-giant’s hide!”  
“Loki!”  
His mother’s reproachful tone was always enough to stop him in his tracks. And always would be he supposed. She glared up at him, eyes wide with anger, and perhaps even horror. He felt a pang of guilt then, for having taken it out upon her.  
He looked sulkily to the floor.  
“I have heard enough of this! We raised you. Does that count for nothing?” Her voice cracked.

Perhaps it did count for something, but it could never make up for everything that had happened. How could it? And he could not shake the thought that would forever plague him, that had Odin not needed him for his affairs of state, had he not thought of his plan to use he and Thor as tools for a future truce, would he have saved that weakling infant, or left him there to die?

“Perhaps… on your part.” He began pacing back and forth methodically, “You took me for who I was. You nurtured me. Taught me, treated me as your own. But to Odin I was nothing more than a chess piece in a game.”  
“That’s not t-“  
“It IS. It is true mother!” He exclaimed, whirling round to face her defiantly. He allowed his emotions to re-surface once again, and he cursed himself furiously. “A tactic. In an unfinished war.

No matter what he says now, he never treated me equally. How could he? I am the enemy. A monster.” 

He felt his anger turn to anguish, felt the pain welling inside him and rising to the surface.  
“All those things he said. The stories about the Frost-Giants. The _hatred_ he held….”  
Loki’s eyes stung with tears, but he desperately blinked them back and then turned back to face Frigga, as if appealing for answers.

She let out a long slow breath, as if venting some of her own pain, and sat herself down on the end of the bed. She tapped the bedspread beside her lightly to beckon him to sit beside her. And just like that, he was weak again. Childlike. He’d allowed his emotions to cut too close to the bone. As though in a daydream, he moved to the bed and sat down beside her, his ranting ceased.

“There was talk… of sending you to Jotunheim to answer for your crimes. But....” she paused. Her eyes scanned the floor nervously, as though she couldn’t look him in the eye, “considering you… _destroyed_ half their planet, we knew you would pay with your life.  
You are lucky that I could convince them-“  
“-I have no doubt that I have you to thank for my life. And that you are the only one who continues to care about my existence…”  
A deep and pained frown furrowed her brow, and she touched the back of his hand gently.  
“…The question is… why?”  
That procured a long, hurtful gaze. “ _Why?_ You are my _son_ Loki. Nothing will ever change that.”  
She braced an arm around his back and encouraged him to lean in to her. He rested his head on her shoulder, and shut his eyes, blocked out the glare of the prison lights. His head was aching, lights danced behind his closed eyelids. He listened to her speaking softly, breathed in that familiar scent that reminded him of home. Of safety.  
 _No._ He thought folornly. _Home no longer. I will never again be safe._  
When he allowed himself to move away, she was smiling wistfully.  
“They say....that your children will grow up to be echoes of their parents. Thor always took after his….father, but you…” she rubbed the back of his hand, as though it would bind him to her, as though it would fix everything.  
“I always liked to think that…you took after me. You are a part of me Loki. A part that I could never, _ever_ deny. And I will always love you and care for you. No matter the distance between us, or the…things that you’ve done.”  
He snickered, but it was a lame attempt at being scathing or menacing, because tears had pooled under his eyelids.

Tears shone in her eyes too, but she was blinking them back, trying to appear composed. Her voice remained steady and certain and true as the rainbow bridge that stood at the foot of Asgard.  
“When you fell…I…” she looked away, as if peering back into that nightmare past, “I felt hollow. That connection. Gone. Your father and Thor, well, they knew how to comfort one another, but I… I watched on… alone.”  
Loki sat, jaw open slightly, slowly letting out breaths that would turn to sobs if he did not regulate them.  
 _?I won’t crack I won’t crack I won’t._

“I won’t let it go unsaid…. I am disappointed in you…”  
The corners of Loki’s mouth turned up, but there was no joy in the expression, it was merely a mask to hide how deep the barb had hit.  
“Well… who isn’t these days?”  
“Do not make a joke of this,” she said softly, rising from the bed and standing before him. He picked at the fabric of the bedspread distractedly.

She looked tired. He had not intended to let his wrath loose upon her; she was the last person that deserved it. It suddenly occurred to him that his mother had dropped the magical-suppressant barrier which had been incarcerating him to let herself in. What if it had been his mother who had put it there in the first place? He wondered for the briefest moment how much energy that would cost someone every day to keep him imprisoned. And that first day when he had tested the barrier relentlessly, when he had the basic remnants of his powers still at his fingertips, throwing curses of all kinds against it until it eventually strengthened and cut him off entirely, thinking it some sort of automated thing, and not that someone could be on the end of it. Certainly not his _mother._ And if it were her keeping it up, was she doing it to keep him in, or to keep something else _out?_

He could not bear the thought of it. He pressed his hands to his temples, clenched his eyes shut, then he brought one shaking hand back down to the bed to support himself.

He felt as though he were a small child once again. He wanted to hide behind her skirts, as he and Thor had done so long ago, to avoid Odin’s temper or to stay clear of over-enthusiastic visitors. Once, when they had been brothers, and not enemies.

All at once he felt the anger and pain fade from him. He must be calm now. He must listen. He brought his other hand down to his sides. His eyes, however, remained shut until he calmed.  
 _Listen_ he heard her voice echo inside his head. He did not question whether it was her influence inducing him to calm down. He knew it and did not fight it.

“There is something coming.” She finally admitted, in the smallest voice he’d ever heard her use, and his eyes flickered open. “I cannot say what. But do not be surprised if you are called upon.”

Loki’s eyebrow arched. “Me? Why m…” He looked away, his mind racing, always racing, trying to guess the next step of the game. And then something clicked, something he knew, in the recesses of his mind. But surely… 

_No. It couldn’t be._  
He looked up at her face and saw the fear there for the first time behind the hardy expression. “No.” He whispered, and Frigga placed a finger to her lips very gently.  
“We must be prepared,” She nodded, and then, as he reached out to her, to reassure her, to touch her arm, to hug her or just to remind himself that she was really there, she took a regretful step back toward the glass. Away from him.

His chest burned with unspent tears, they welled up inside his chest waiting to emerge and wrack his body with sobbing, but he refused to let the fierce pain of rejection show on his face.  
“I must go.” She smiled a melancholy smile. Her eyes grew glassy and tears pooled at the corners.

He simply stared after her. There were no more words to say. Nothing to make up for what he’d done. So he remained sitting down on the bed, wretched and pathetic, and watched her step slowly across the room.

“Expect another visitor before long.” She muttered. And then out of his line of sight she produced an object. “I shall leave this here.” She pressed a book onto the table top. It had come as if from nowhere and he smiled a little at the magic trick she had taught him when he was very small, “And one shall appear every week. Unless… you require more? Just ask.” She smiled.  
“Ask?” he croaked, hopeful that perhaps she would visit again.  
She tapped her head, just below the left temple, suggestively.  
“I cannot reply. But I will always hear you.”  
They exchanged a glance. A farewell. And then, just as it appeared she would leave with nothing further, she relaxed her guard and swept him up in an embrace. She had provided his only contact in months, and now this could be his final contact for eternity.

And then it was as though she had never been there.  
Truth be told he was not even certain he had not dreamt it. He awoke at dawn curled up on the floor, of all places, his back aching, his face marked from being pressed against the ground; it was cool and pleasant there. When he sat up he noted a dwarf in a cell opposite staring, who then pointed at him and belly-laughed.  
Throwing the beast a snarl he stood up and straightened his attire, dusting himself down.

And then he spotted the book, still resting on the table where she had left it. He brushed his fingertips across it lightly with a wistful look. Then took it up, perched himself upon the bed and began to read, drinking in the words with careless abandon.

True to her word, every week a new book would appear upon the table. They began to pile up in one corner; they were forbidden possessions he was inexplicably allowed to keep, and he treasured every one. He soon realised that he could now to count the number of weeks that had passed since she had visited. He had a measure of time. He loved her for that.

Eighteen books had arrived and been read gratefully before his second visitor made an appearance. The guest appeared entirely unannounced, and brought the deepest surprise Loki had felt in a long time.

He had been whiling away the hours with the last few chapters of that week’s book, when he felt that same frisson run down his spine that told him he was being watched. He peered up from the pages of his book slowly and stared out into the darkness. He attempted to adjust his eyes to the dim light cast outside his cell but he already knew in his gut who was there. A sly grin pulled up one corner of his mouth. 

“After all this time.” He whispered, “ _now_ you come to visit me, brother.”  
He shut the book with a snap and stood slowly, waiting for his gaoler to brave stepping forward.

“Why?” He spat. “To mock?” 

“You are not my brother.” A familiar voice reached out through the darkness. And then a memorable figure stepped into the pool of light outside his cell. Loki stood there dazed for a moment, not quite believing his own vision. He laughed at the absurdity, a strange and unpleasant sound to his ears, so accustomed to silence as they were.  
Thor eyed him up and down with distaste, “My brother died. And something evil came back in his place.”  
The mournful expression with which he beheld Loki amused him more than anything ever had, and his own face split into an even wider grin as he cackled. “Is that what you tell yourself?”  
He narrowed his eyes and looked down upon Thor. “Does that comfort you any?” he teased, letting out another chuckle.

“I wish that I could trust you.” Thor shook his head mournfully.  
“If you did then you’d be the fool I always took you for.”  
Thor’s head snapped back up sharply, “I am not here to play games Loki. I have neither the mood nor the stomach for it.”

“Then pray, tell me. Thor _Odinson._ ” Loki began with a mock eagerness, “what is your purpose here?”  
Thor looked to the ground, with trepidation, and a little anger. And then resolutely, he faced his foe. “I need your help.”

Loki could’ve danced.  
Could’ve bellowed with laughter and danced all around his cell, because he certainly must have finally gone mad.  
Instead, he stood with a cocky grin playing at his lips waiting for this fantastical creature of his imagination to speak once again.

“You should know that if you betray me… I will kill you.”  
“When do we start?”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something heartfelt between Frigga and Loki, a lot of emphasis is being put on the strength of their relationship, and in the family unit she is the only one he can still tolerate. 
> 
> This ended up being waaaay longer than I intended, but I haven't written fics for about five years, so it all came out in a big messy angst-filled splurge. Warning - I tend to write a lot of angst.
> 
> Sorry if there are any tense or grammar errors, I need to get back into the swing of things, but yeah, concrit welcome just go easy on me! Enjoy.
> 
> Note - The Einhejar is typically a band of dead warriors who rise up and defend Asgard at the coming of Ragnarok, but I referred to 'Einhejar' in this as a living army, something to be proud of. 
> 
> Also rushed the ending.
> 
> Added note 31/10/13: I wanted to add that I wrote this before Thor The Dark World came out, and I had avoided all spoilers, so any resemblance is coincidental.


End file.
